The Running Man

MINUS 066 AND COUNTING

The boy, seven years old, black, smoking a cigarette, leaned closer to the mouth of the alley, watching the street.

There had been a sudden, slight movement in the street where there had been none before. Shadows moved, rested, moved again. The manhole cover was rising. It paused and something-eyes?-glimmered. The cover suddenly slid aside with a clang.

Someone (or something, the boy thought with a trace of fear) was moving out there. Maybe the devil was coming out of hell to get Cassie, he thought. Ma said Cassie was going to heaven to be with Dicky and the other angels. The boy thought that was bullshit. Everybody went to hell when they died, and the devil jabbed them in the ass with a pitchfork. He had seen a picture of the devil in the books Bradley had snuck out of the Boston Public Library. Heaven was for Push freaks. The devil was the Man.

It could be the devil, he thought as Richards suddenly boosted himself out of the manhole and leaned for a second on the seamed and split cement to get his breath back. No tail and no horns, not red like in that book, but the mother looked crazy and mean enough.

Now he was pushing the cover back, and now-

–now holy Jesus he was running toward the alley.

The boy grunted, tried to run, and fell over his own feet.

He was trying to get up, scrambling and dropping things, and the devil suddenly grabbed him.

“Doan stick me wif it!” He screamed in a throat-closed whisper. “Doan stick me wif no fork, you sumbitch-”

“Shhh! Shut up! Shut up!” The devil shook him, making his teeth rattle like marbles in his head, and the boy shut up. The devil peered around in an ecstacy of apprehension. The expression on his face was almost farcical in its extreme fear. The boy was reminded of the comical fellows on that game show Swim the Crocodiles. He would have laughed if he hadn’t been so frightened himself.

“You ain’t the devil,” the boy said.

“You’ll think I am if you yell.”

“I ain’t gonna,” the boy said contemptuously. “What you think, I wanna get my balls cut oft? Jesus, I ain’t even big enough to come yet.”

“You know a quiet place we can go?”

“Doan kill me, man. I ain’t got nothin.” The boy’s eyes, white in the darkness, rolled up at him.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Holding his hand, the boy led Richards down the twisting, littered alley and into another. At the end, just before the alley opened onto an airshaft between two faceless highrise buildings, the boy led him into a lean-to built of scrounged boards and bricks. It was built for four feet, and Richards banged his head going in.

The boy pulled a ditty swatch of black cloth across the opening and fiddled with something. A moment later a weak glow lit their faces; the boy had hooked a small lightbulb to an old cracked car battery.

“I kifed that battery myself,” the boy said. “Bradley tole me how to fix it up. He’s got books. I got a nickel bag, too. I’ll give it to you if you don’t kill me. You better not. Bradley’s in the Stabbers. You kill me an he’ll make you shit in your boot an eat it.”

“I’m not doing any killings,” Richards said impatiently. “At least not little kids.”

“I ain’t no little kid! I kifed that fuckin battery myself!”

The look of injury forced a dented grin to Richards’s face. “All right. What’s your name, kid?”

“Ain’t no kid.” Then, sulkily: “Stacey.”

“Okay. Stacey. Good. I’m on the run. You believe that?”

“Yeah, you on the run. You dint come outta that manhole to buy dirty pos'cards.” He stared speculatively at Richards. “You a honky? Kinda hard to tell wif all that dirt.”

“Stacey. I-” He broke off and ran a hand through his hair. When he spoke again, he seemed to be talking to himself. “I got to trust somebody and it turns out to be a kid. A kid. Hot Jesus, you ain’t even six, boy.”

“I’m eight in March,” the boy said angrily. “My sister Lassie’s got cancer,” he added. “She screams a lot. Thass why I like it here. Kifed that fuckin battery myself. You wanna toke up, mister?”

“No, and you don’t either. You want two bucks, Stacey?”

“Chris’ yes!” Distrust slid over his eyes. “You dint come outta no manhole with two fuckin bucks. Thass bullshit.”

Richards produced a New Dollar and gave it to the boy. He stared at it with awe that was close to horror.

“There’s another one if you bring your brother,” Richards said, and seeing his expression, added swiftly: “I’ll give it to you on the side so he won’t see it. Bring him alone.”

“Won’t do no good to try an kill Bradley, man. He’ll make you shit in your boot-”

“And eat it. I know. You run and get him. Wait until he’s alone.”

“Three bucks.”

“No.”

“Lissen man, for three bucks I can get Cassie some stuff at the drug. Then she won’t scream so fuckin much.”

The man’s face suddenly worked as if someone the boy couldn’t see had punched him. “All right. Three.”

“New Dollars,” the boy persisted.

“Yes, for Christ’s sake, yes. Get him. And if you bring the cops you won’t get anything.”

The boy paused, half in and half out of his little cubbyhole. “You stupid if you think I do that. I hate them fuckin oinkers worse than anyone. Even the devil.”

He left, a seven-year-old boy with Richards’s life in his grubby, scabbed hands. Richards was too tired to be really afraid. He turned off the light, leaned back, and dozed off.